Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! That these two words of glittering gold THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. WE walked along, while bright and red And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, "The will of God be done!" A village schoolmaster was he, As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday. And on that morning, through the grass And by the steaming rills, We travelled merrily, to pass A day among the hills. 66 "Our work," said I, was well begun; Then from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun, So sad a sigh has brought?" A second time did Matthew stop; Upon the eastern mountain-top, "Yon cloud with that long purple cleft A day like this, which I have left "And just above yon slope of corn "With rod and line I sued the sport And, coming to the church, stopped short Beside my daughter's grave. "Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale; And then she sang; she would have been A very nightingale. "Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And yet I loved her more, For so it seemed, than till that day And turning from her grave, I met, A blooming girl, whose hair was wet "A basket on her head she bare; "No fountain from its rocky cave "There came from me a sigh of pain I looked at her, and looked again: Matthew is in his grave, yet now, THE FOUNTAIN. A CONVERSATION. We talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true, A pair of friends, though I was young, And Matthew seventy-two. We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat; And from the turf a fountain broke, And gurgled at our feet. "Now Matthew!" said I, "let us match This water's pleasant tune With some old Border song, or catch, That suits a summer's noon; "Or of the church clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade, That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made!" In silence Matthew lay, and eyed "Down to the vale this water steers, How merrily it goes! 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows. "And here, on this delightful day, How oft, a vigorous man, I lay "My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears "Thus fares it still in our decay: And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away "The blackbird in the summer trees, The lark upon the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will. "With nature never do they wage A foolish strife; they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free: "But we are pressed by heavy laws; And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore. "If there is one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The household hearts that were his own, It is the man of mirth. "My days, my friend, are almost gone, And many love me; but by none Am I enough beloved." "Now both himself and me he wrongs, The man who thus complains! I live and sing my idle songs Upon these happy plains, "And, Matthew, for thy children dead At this he grasped my hand, and said, We rose up from the fountain-side; Of the green sheep-track did we glide; And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, About the crazy old church clock, IF thou indeed derive thy light from heaven, Visible though it be to half the earth, Though half a sphere be conscious of its brightness, Is yet of no diviner origin, No purer essence, than the one that burns, Like an untended watch-fire, on the ridge Of some dark mountain; or than those which seem Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps, Among the branches of the leafless trees. |